Flames for the Forsaken
by Stephantom
Summary: Denethor in his last moments.


Title: Flames for the Foresaken  
  
Author: Narsil  
  
Disclaimer: Definitely not Tolkein here. Denethor, Faramir, Boromir and Finduilas are not mine. I make no money. Obviously. This is just for fun because I'm pysco. But so are you, or you wouldn't be reading this, eh? heheh.  
  
Summary: Denethor's POV. (DUN-Dun-dun) As much as I abhor the man, I can't help but pity him. Perhaps I sympathize with him a bit too much in this story, and perhaps I am projecting my own feelings on him because this is how I would feel if I was him, but... I dunno. I'll let you decide. Anyway, this is a short piece with him reflecting on his life and his relationship with Faramir in particular, right before he goes and kills himself in Return of the King. ____________________________________________________________________________ ___  
  
"What are you reading?"  
  
My son looks up quickly from his book and stares up at me fearfully from behind long raven strands. I try to hide my frustration. Why is he always so timid? He clearly heard me; there is no reason to repeat myself, so I continue to stare at him waiting for his response. He seems unable to speak and hands me the book to see for myself.  
  
"The Tale of Turin Turumbar," I read. "Yes, I remember that one quite well. A rather bleak tale, I recall, though quite fascinating."  
  
He gives me a rare smile as I return the book. "Yes. It's very sad. I'm enjoying it though. I tried to make Boromir read it too, but he didn't want to." Suddenly he stops and looks at the ground. Most curious behavior that is, and I realize it can only mean he must be hiding something from me, as he ever is.  
  
"Perhaps because he felt he should be using his time for more productive things," I say sternly. He nods and continues to look at the ground. A moment of tight silence follows and I sigh inwardly. I had approached him intending to have a swift but friendly conversation, allowing him a chance to gain my forgiveness and respect after the incident the other day, but it appeared that was impossible with him.  
  
"Yes, my Lord," he says, seeming to have finally found his voice and looking up from the floor and into my eyes at last. His face and voice are impassive and though his words are soft-spoken and obedient, I sence he does not agree. For I know he will merely go back to his book the moment I turn away. Some people will never change. Try as I might, he will never listen to me. He seems to have the same reaction to both beatings and kind words. Foolish, obstinate boy. Thank Eru for Boromir.  
  
I sigh and walk away from him and out of the corner of my eye I see his shoulders relax, though I can still feel his silver eyes following me as I leave the room. _______________________________________________________________  
  
That was one of the closest things to a pleasant exchange my youngest son and I ever had. He must have been around ten years old at that time. He was always small for his age. I never worried about our relationship, because relationships with sons wasn't something I deemed entirely important or productive, unless that son was my heir, in which case it was included in my duty to Gondor. And Boromir rarely gave me any reason to be displeased anyhow. But Faramir...  
  
When I really get down to it and question what it is about him I dislike, I cannot quite put it to words. Perhaps the way he starts when I speak to him, the way he looks at me fearfully, like a beaten dog trotting behind its master with its tail between its legs. I would disdain such cowardly actions, even did he not contradict them. But what angers me more is that despite this appearance of being obedient, respectful, and loving, if a little fearful, he is far more defiant than Boromir ever was. And when Boromir has an objection he will voice it, instead of pretending as if he agrees, then going about doing things as he sees fit, as Faramir does. The boy cannot be trusted.  
  
And yet, what has he done that has ever been directly against my orders? I search my memory but I can find nothing. I did not tell him to bring the ring to me, for I did not know an opportunity like that would come to him. But I had hoped, fool as I may think he is, that he would have had better judgement than that. Why would he have let our last hope fall through his fingers without even attempting to grab it? He thought it was the right choice, thought it was for the best, thought those ridiculous halflings capable of succeeding... Mithrandir's intervention of course. Perhaps Mithrandir is the one to blame, not my son. He was always putting ideas into his head, and try as I might to beat them out of him, he would ever crawl back to that fool wizard. Why did he always go to him? Why not to me? Does it come back to me eventually? Is it my fault in the end? Why has he always feared me so? I sigh and draw a hand across my face. I will not blame Faramir any longer. Nay, how can I now?  
  
Look at him. His face is gaunt and frighteningly pale, and there are dark shadows beneath his eyes. I lay a hand on his forehead; his skin is burning. I suddenly look about myself. I can hear the sounds of battle distantly outside. We are losing and suffering horribly. It is just as the Palantir showed me. Everything I worked so hard to build and preserve is crumbling about me. So many years and so much hard work... and what do I have to show? My kingdom in flames... my servants desperate and disloyal... my people confused and despairing... My wife long dead...The son I was ever proud of sent off on some vain and foolhardy quest and now lost to me forever. And my second son, wanting as ever only to please me, sent off to fight an impossible battle, standing against Mordor's demons with no hope or reason, only because I wished it.  
  
The memory of his sad eyes, looking so foresaken as he asked me if I wished his place switched with Boromir's, and again when he volunteered to lead the defence of the Pellenor, stings painfully. My last words to him were bitter and cruel, frustrated with his pleading, perhaps even frustrated with myself, but unable to admit it. Thus it had often been, too often. Yet I was always unable to stop myself; the words would always spring to my lips when he entered my sight. Would that he knew I felt this. But he never shall for I could never admit it to him. How could I when I could not even admit it to myself? Duty leaves no room for guilt. But now there is no longer any reason for duty. There is no hope. Now that all I have worked so hard for is lost, it is as if I am seeing for the first time what truly matters, all that I neglected.  
  
But sight comes too late, for that too is lost to me now.  
  
His chest barely rises at all as he breathes fainly. I look at his fine, raven hair framing his bloodless face, his long, dark lashes. He looks so like his mother... And she is gone. She has been gone for so long. When she died it was as if something in me died as well. I put aside all relationships with those around me and sold my soul to my office. Life is so fragile; it is best to think little of it, so when it breaks you will not be shaken. Yet how could I have known that the emptiness and greif you feel when someone you have always loved leaves you is almost easier to take than the anguish felt when someone you have always scorned leaves you... Someone who failed you, someone you failed... Someone who looked on you with love throughout it all, even as you sacrificed them to vain honor and blind bitterness.  
  
They are all gone; they left me bereft of everything, even dignity. My House has fallen, my city will burn and perish, and those that survive will be twisted and tormented into hollow slaves of the Dark Lord. If I am struck down it will be by my own hand; I will give no one else the satisfaction. This boy was all I had left; why did I condem him? Why did I send him away? It's over. This is the end. If we must die, we will at least die together. I will never live under the Enemy's reign, I refuse to become a slave to the Dark Lord. My son and I shall pass together, perhaps the first and last thing we will do together.  
  
We will burn... as all else will burn... as he already burns...  
  
I linger a moment longer, staring at my wounded son's troubled and restless face as he dreams feverishly. Then I lift his thin frame up into my arms and carry him with me from the room... 


End file.
